Death of a Cave Dweller Read Online Free Page B

“But if we’d gone direct, we wouldn’t have had the pleasure of arrivin’ in the ’Pool in style, would we?”
    Rutter permitted himself a grin. He supposed he should be grateful that the ferry trip was putting his boss in such a good mood, because the journey up from London had been by diesel train, and Woodend – who thought that the only manly way to travel was under steam power – had been distinctly grumpy about it.
    Woodend reached into one of the voluminous pockets of his hairy sports jacket and pulled out a package carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. Rutter made a private bet with himself it contained corned-beef sandwiches, with the bread cut doorstep thick, and when his boss had unwrapped it, he saw that he was right.
    â€œDickens used to like comin’ to Liverpool, you know,” Woodend said, before taking a generous bite out of his sandwich.
    â€œDid he, sir?”
    â€œAye, he did that. He said that it was his next favourite town after London. He used to take the ferry across the Mersey regularly. Claimed it helped him to clear his head.”
    Rutter shook his own head, wonderingly. Charlie Woodend and his Charles Dickens. The chief inspector was fond of saying that his favourite author should be used as part of the police training course, and though there were other officers who thought he was only joking, his own sergeant knew that he was deadly serious.
    â€œI’ve got some old friends in Liverpool,” Woodend said. He paused. “Some old enemies, an’ all, if it comes to that.”
    Rutter simply nodded. That was how things were with his boss, he’d learned – either people liked him so much they’d climb a tree for him, or else they felt much happier when he was out of the way.
    The chief inspector examined the dock front. Cranes were busy unloading cargoes from ships weighed down with fruit fresh from Africa. Liners, heading for American and Australia, bobbed quietly in the water and waited for the right tide. Even from a distance, he could sense the bustle.
    â€œBein’ a southerner, you’ll not have been here before, will you, Bob?” he asked, somehow making Rutter’s unfamiliarity with the town sound like a character defect.
    â€œNo, sir, I haven’t,” the sergeant replied, deadpan.
    â€œIt’s a grand place,” Woodend told him. “There’s a lot of life – a lot of excitement – in it. Do you know, I’m rather lookin’ forward to workin’ on this case.”
    â€œAre you indeed,” Rutter said, raising a surprised eyebrow.
    â€œAn’ what’s that supposed to mean? Is it some clever grammar-school way of takin’ the piss?” Woodend asked, without rancour.
    Rutter grinned again. It was not the first time that Woodend had brought up his grammar-school education, and he was sure it would be far from the last.
    â€œIt’s just that I thought a country boy like you would be much happier working in a village,” he explained.
    The chief inspector sighed – a clear indication that he thought his sergeant had missed a fundamental point.
    â€œYou can’t just define villages by geography,” he said. He tapped his forehead. “Villages are up here – in your noggin.”
    â€œWould you care to explain that, sir?” Rutter asked, knowing his boss would, whether he wanted him to or not.
    â€œNobody lives in a city,” Woodend said. “It’s too big for the mind to take in. No, what people do is they build up their own little world which is bounded by their house, the pub they drink in, the place they work, an’ their corner shop. They might venture out into the rest of the city now an’ again, but when they do, they’re only
visitin
’.”
    He was probably right, Rutter decided, thinking of his own childhood in north London.
    â€œAn’ then there’s the other kind of village,”